Fought For Me
by TheRebelFlesh
Summary: It was only after he fell that Sherlock realized how much he loved John, and when he finally returns after three long, pain-filled years, he finds that John has already moved on. Even after being offered a place back at 221B, can Sherlock recover from his experience, and will John be there to help him? Warnings inside. Please R&R! Firstly JohnXMary, then Johnlock...
1. Chapter 1

**My first attempt at Post-Reichenbach, from fall to reunion, and it's impact on Sherlock and John.** **This was originally going to be a one-shot, but I changed my mind about halfway though :). Hope you all enjoy and please review!**

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The cold wind whipped around him, causing his coat to billow and his hair to whip against his face. His feet were poised on the edge of the roof. Not much longer now. He surveyed the scene from his high vantage point, and everything looked to be in place. He'd made sure of it. He craned his neck and turned around, catching sight of Moriarty's body, head resting in a pool of blood. This was really happening, he couldn't turn back, couldn't rewind anymore. As he turned back to face the street, he caught sight of a cab pulling up to Bart's. The cab that John was in. He watched the soldier exit the cab, head snapping around quickly, looking for something or someone. But he wasn't looking up, why would he? He watched the man pull out his cellphone and hurriedly dial a number. Sherlock knew the call he was making, there could be only one possibility. Mentally steeling himself, he felt the tell-tale buzz in his pocket. Finger shaking, he answered the call. It was the worst call of his life. He could barely hold it together, and every word came out choked up. He had to force himself through several parts of the speech he'd prepared hours before. He was a fake. He researched John before they met, learned everything he could. It was a trick, just a magic trick. Some part of Sherlock hoped that John would somehow catch that message, that he would understand that this, all of this, wasn't real. Nobody could be that clever. He found himself chuckling when John remained faithful. He had always been so loyal, even if Sherlock didn't necessarily deserve it. He would never believe Sherlock was a fake, he knew that. But he had to try. His eyes were wet with tears as he spoke his last words. Goodbye, John. He remembered a long time ago,the night they'd first met, when he'd asked John what he would say in his last minutes alive, if he was being murdered. Sherlock had imagined his last words to be something clever, a witty display of his intelligence. Or maybe he wouldn't really have any at all, maybe he'd be caught by surprise by some maniac he was chasing down a London alley and shot in the head. But, he would have never imagined they would have been a goodbye to the one of the only people who had ever mattered. He did suppose he was being murdered. Moriarty had been true to his words, he had burned Sherlock's heart out. Sherlock's heart was John, and he was going to leave him and die in the eyes of the rest of the world, be labeled a fraud. A fake. But it was worth it to keep John alive because John was so much more important. And so he jumped. But his plan wasn't fool-proof. It could never have been, even if he'd had days worth of planning instead of hours. A million things could go wrong, but he was prepared to die for John, the man he loved.

Everything went perfectly as planned. The biker, a member of his homeless network, had knocked John down. John had stayed down long enough for another member of his network, disguised as a hospital worker and pedestrians, to cover him in blood. The crowd gathered around him, blocking John's view. They tried to stop John from getting to close, but John hand clasped around his wrist, trying to find a pulse. The rubber ball at his armpit did it's job, John found no pulse before being pulled away by the crowd. It was agony though. Lying there perfectly still, eyes still open. Watching John, hearing John. He wanted nothing more to jump up and hug John, to tell him that it wasn't real and that he loved him, but he couldn't. He kept his body limp as he was lifted on the stretcher, arms flopping on top of his torso. When he was inside the safety of the hospital, he let his eyes flutter shut.

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He woke up hours later in the morgue. His body was stiff, and his hair was still matted with fake blood. He cracked his eyes open, and saw only darkness. Oh right, body bag. He'd have to wait for Molly to get back and let him out. He heard a door open from across the room, and heard the footfalls that could only belong to Molly. The overly bright florescent lights pierced his eyes as the bag's zipper was pulled down, and squinting, he saw Molly hovering over him, a look of worry on her face. He pulled himself up into a sitting position rather painfully, clutching his side. Bruised ribs, maybe broken, most likely from the much shorter fall he took before rolling onto the pavement. Molly was just standing there, not sure what to say to comfort him in this situation.

"Thank you...for everything," he told her in a hoarse whisper.

He really did mean it though. Everyone had always thought that Molly didn't matter to Sherlock, that she was just another face in the morgue that brought him coffee. But that was how he had wanted it. He had always anticipated a day like this to come around, where he needed someone he could trust with his life, someone more than willing to help him, but who couldn't be used to hurt him. If Molly had know how much he cared, some criminal would use her against him, would hurt her and torture her to lure him into a trap. So he had made sure that she remained clueless to their silent arrangement. He was right though, she faked his legal paperwork, including his death certificate, without a blink of the eye. And while she didn't like the predicament, didn't like lying to everyone, she had to agree, had to help the man she was completely infatuated with. Perhaps he didn't love her in a romantic way, but she was all he had left in this world now. Nobody else knew he was still alive, not even his brother. All of this would have been easier, if Mycroft knew. He could have helped with the legal paperwork, could have given him more information on Moriarty's web and a better, safer way out of the country. But he didn't want to risk it. Mycroft may not have been one of Moriarty's original sniper targets, but he could still become one. Telling him would just risk another life. He felt guilty, actually guilty, for not telling him though. He knew his brother cared for him greatly, even if he didn't show him often. He'd take this hard, he would probably feel guilty for not helping him enough, for not being there for Sherlock during their childhood, for abandoning him when he ended up a pathetic, homeless junkie. He knows that Mycroft feels bad for not being there for him, and he would feel like he had played a part in creating the depression that had forced Sherlock to "commit suicide". God, he couldn't handle the amount of guilt he was putting all these people through. Lestrade would find out about this soon, maybe he knew already, and would immediately regret starting the investigation. He would think he was too much of a coward to stand by Sherlock, who had never given him any reasonable doubt. He would feel like he had forced Sherlock to this extreme. Perhaps even Donovan and Anderson would feel guilty, but it was pretty unlikely. And John. He had to shake the thoughts of what John was doing out of his mind. It was too painful to think of how John must be feeling right now. He had to stop this, had to stop thinking about these people. He had to focus on getting out of England, on dismantling Moriarty's criminal web, string by string. Thinking about them now, torturing himself over their feelings, wouldn't do any good. Hours later, in the middle of the night, he left St. Bart's with Molly for her flat. Thankfully she didn't have a flatmate to complicate things. That night, he cried into Molly's shoulder as she hugged him tightly. Later that night, he watched the blood that was matted in his hair run down the shower drain, and he was gone by the time Molly woke up in the morning.

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Three years. Three horrible, destructive, pain-filled years. Three years of killing. Of torturing and being tortured himself. His body carried new scars now, some still a fresh reddish purple, other faded white against his pale skin, but all remnants of the suffering he had felt. Scars from whips marred the skin of his back and chest. Scars from long knives ran up and down his legs and arms, as well as across his ribs. Scars from tortures so awful they seemed medieval slashed across his body. There were scars from gunshots as well, from where he had to pull the bullets out himself in the bathroom of a decrepit hostel. Broken bones he'd had to set himself. Fevers he'd had to muscle through, sicknesses he couldn't go to a hospital to treat. No hospitals for anything. He had been hungry, there had been times he hadn't been able to eat for weeks, either because he didn't have the time or money for it. He had thieved and pick pocketed, stolen from wealthy tourists and poor families alike, anything to stay alive. Sometimes he had even begged. He had been exhausted, fatigued to the point of collapse. Because sleep, even when he could find a place safe enough to rest his eyes, had become torturous. He would remember the pain, the torture, the wounds that were now healed on the surface but not in his mind. The faces of the men and women he had killed weaved their way in and out of his nightmares, but sometimes he would see John's face swimming before him, and he would have the most horrible nightmares about John. About Moriarty's men finding him, shooting him in the head while Sherlock watched, bound and gagged, from the sidelines. The worst were the ones where John was the one ending his life. Shooting himself, hanging himself, even jumping off a building. They were the worst because he honestly didn't know if they were true. He didn't know how John was doing, if he had moved on with his life or if he was long gone from this world. Sometimes he wondered what they were all doing, how they had handled their grief. Sometimes he would forget himself, and start talking to John even though he wasn't there. But he had suffered through all of this, and he had traveled the world in those three years to keep John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson safe. He trekked all throughout Europe, traveling by foot, boat, and train (almost always a stowaway). Russia, Germany, France, Italy, Greece. Asia as well, from India to China. Across the Pacific to America and Mexico, down into South America. From major cities to tiny, rural towns. His fluency in several languages was extremely helpful, but Moriarty's web had been extensive and world-wide, and sometimes he'd had no way of communicating. But now he was in England again, and it was all over. The running, the hiding, the pain, and the suffering was over. He had made the last hit about a week ago. A sniper named Moran, ex-military, one of Moriarty's personal favorites. He had been difficult to take out, but Sherlock had prevailed, escaping with a several nasty cuts and bruises and some cracked ribs, but still whole. But he had no idea what to do now. He doubted anyone would recognize him, he had been this close to famous, and his presence in the media would have died out in the months after his suicide. Even someone who had been a fan wouldn't recognize him now. He was just a scarred shell, so thin he could be mistake for anorexic, his head bent down, ghostly pale face, sharp cheekbones, and hollow eyes concealed by knotted dark hair. He was terrified of what he had to do now. It was time to tell people what had happened. Time to clear his name. Time to see John again...He had run through their reunion so many time in his own mind. He had imagined it in every way possible. Happy John. Angry John. Depressed, alcoholic John who was still eaten up by grief even after all this time. A John that had moved on, gotten married, had kids and left all memories of his best friend behind. Even visiting John's grave in a cemetery somewhere, perhaps the same cemetery he was "buried", and kneeling down at his tombstone, sobbing his apologies and telling John how much he loved and missed him. So he hailed a cab and headed towards Baker Street, hoping that John was still there. He paid the cabbie with what little money he had left, and walked up to the door, hands lingering on the knob. This was it, this moment was three years in the making and he had no idea how it was going to turn out. His hands shook madly as he turned the knob and stepped into 221 Baker Street for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

It hadn't changed much. All the memories were still there. Heart in his throat, he listened for any noise in the seemingly empty flat. Nothing downstairs, Mrs. Hudson must be out shopping. He could hear quiet footfalls upstairs though, but they didn't sound like John. He made his way slowly up the stairs, clutching his side in attempt not to pull the stitches in his side. His steps were shuffling and weak. God, he felt terrible. Finally, he made it up to the door to the flat, his flat, their flat. His hands traced the familiar lines in the wood, and raised a hand to knock. Please let John still be here...

He was momentarily confused when the door was opened by another woman. Not Mrs. Hudson, certainly not John. Mid 30s. Short in stature. Straight, light brown hair with bangs cut short. Large framed black glasses. Nobody he knew. He was about to turn around and bolt down the steps when the woman grabbed his wrist, brown eyes wide with surprise.

"It's you...oh God it's actually you," she practically whispered while pulling him inside the flat.

She pulled him into the kitchen and practically pushed him down into the chair. It was the same chair that had been there three years ago. He scanned the room quickly with what was probably a bewildered look on his face. The flat was almost exactly the same. The same chairs, the same sofa, the same books on the shelf, and the same mugs in the cabinets. The smiley face and bullet holes were still there, and the kitchen table still had the same scratches and stains from his experiments. He watched as the petite woman busied herself making tea, looking over her shoulder a few times to check he was still there. He put his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. Who was this woman? Some kind of creepy fangirl? Where was John, anyway? The flat was practically the same, he found it hard to believe that John had moved out and left everything there. His mind kept wandering until he heard a mug clinking as it was set down in front of him. His head shot up immediately, and he noticed the woman sitting down in the chair next to him, a look of worry and shock on her face. She gently nudged the mug towards him, urging him to drink. He hadn't had a good cup of tea in a long time. After a few sips, Sherlock finally had the courage to speak up.

"John...is he still here...," he asked, voice much shakier than he would have liked.

The woman nodded, "Yeah, he still lives here. He's, um, at work right now. I was expecting him home any minute. I'm Mary, by the way. John, he's um...told me a lot about you...," she told him, trailing off at the end.

"Oh," he said simply, swallowing the lump in his throat. They were almost definitely romantically attached. He supposed it was inevitable, really. But she seemed...nice though. Different from all the other girls John had brought through the flat. His ears pricked up when he heard feet walking up the steps, he heard John's voice calling out Mary's name. Mary jumped up from her chair, and giving a quick look to Sherlock, rushed to the door to meet John there and try to figure out how to tell him that his best friend who had been dead for three years was sitting in their kitchen drinking tea...

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**Please review! Hope to update soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**So this chapter is from John's perspective, and I hope you all enjoy!**

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He pretended he was okay for the first few days, even if he wasn't. The world didn't make sense anymore, not without him. But, he didn't let himself feel things, he pushed them away to the back of his mind, because to admit how broken he felt would be to admit that Sherlock was gone and was never coming back. And he didn't want to do that. He wanted more than anything to believe that he would wake up one morning to the sound of Sherlock scraping away at the violin or that he would walk into the sitting room to find Sherlock sprawled on the couch wearing nothing but a sheet. He wanted to believe these things, but he knew he couldn't. Then there would be the sudden flashes of anger. Anger at Donovan and Anderson for starting this whole goddamn thing. Anger at the press for tearing Sherlock apart, for saying he was a fake when John knew in his heart that Sherlock was genuine. Misdirected anger at Lestrade for being such a coward as to listen to Donovan and Anderson. Lestrade didn't deserve the anger, John knew that he was only trying to do his job, but he couldn't help himself. Anger at everyone and everything that had pushed him into Sherlock's path. The bullet that ripped through his shoulder, sending him home. The meager size of his pension that had forced him to find a flatmate. The trivial decision to take a walk in the park where he ended up running into Mike. Everything. John was even angry at himself for not being there for Sherlock, for not stopping him. The days before his suicide had been difficult for the both of them. He should have seen the cracks forming in Sherlock's usually ice-like visage, should have made sure he was okay. Seeing your whole world crashing down around you, seeing everything you have worked your entire life for crumble must have been terrible for him. He knew how that felt now. The one thing that Sherlock had clung to his entire life was his intelligence and his skill, and now he was labeled a fake. A fraud. And even knowing how terrible his last few days had been, John couldn't help himself feeling angry at Sherlock. Had he understood what this was going to do to John? He had shown the man an entirely new world, a new war to fight, and given his life a purpose. He'd chased away the limp and the depression and, to some extent, the nightmares. He had made John a different man, and now, just like that, that man was gone, and John was left drowning. Why had Sherlock been so selfish? How could he just leave like this...

After the first few weeks, the anger gradually faded away, and he made up with Lestrade, who totally understood his anger and accepted him back as a friend. But sometimes, he would wonder if he did...something...that he would be able to wake up from this nightmare. If he made up with Harry and his parents. If he was a better doctor, if he helped more people. He knew it was crazy, that nothing could bring his best friend back, but he still believed it, even if it was only for a short time. But then the depression came along, worse than anything he had ever felt, worse even than the depression he had felt after after his family was torn apart by Harry's coming out or even after being sent home from the war. It could be triggered by anything, really. He would see a man in a dark coat, or hear violin music coming and feel like breaking down. Once, he poured two cups of tea, even making one the way Sherlock liked it, and set one on the coffee table before realizing that its recipient wasn't there. That he would never be there. So he sat down on the couch, silent tears running down his face, and drank the tea, even though he hated the taste. He rarely left the flat anymore, usually only going out to do the shopping. But whenever he did, he avoided Bart's at all cost. He avoided Scotland Yard, Angelo's, everywhere Sherlock and him had been together. It was all too painful to walk London and reliving all the memories the streets held. So he stayed in the flat, shoved all of Sherlock's possessions into Sherlock's old room, unable to throw them away but also unable to look at them. He knew that Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were worried about him. They had forced him to start seeing Ella again, tried to force him to talk about this whole mess. The anti-depressants she gave him helped a little bit, but not much. She suggested he try journaling (she didn't suggest blogging for obvious reasons), and getting out of the flat more often. So, as per her request, he would go out to pubs with Lestrade every once and a while, and sometimes Lestrade would try to set him up on blind dates, but he always refused those. He had lunch with Molly a few times, and she would try talking to him about Sherlock, but she was always dreadful about it. He was always surprised by how much she seemed to care about his well-being, they'd never been very close, but he supposed it was her own way of honoring Sherlock by making sure John was okay. Sometimes there would be days when he felt better, when he was able to forget about Sherlock for a few hours. He would go out to lunch or for drinks with Lestrade and be able to smile and occasionally laugh before going home to his long empty flat and being wrapped up in the depression again. But even with the good days, there would be so many bad days, when everything around him reminded him of his loss. Every dark-haired man walking down the sidewalk, every song on the radio, every item in the flat. There were nights when he seriously thought about ending it, about joining Sherlock. He consider taking too many anti-depressants or too many of the sleeping pills Ella had also prescribed for him. More than once he spent the night curled up in Sherlock's favorite chair or sitting on his bed with his old gun pressed to his temple, trying to work up the courage to pull the trigger. He just couldn't. He was too weak, if that made any sense. Death was so final, where as life still seemed full of possibilities. The depression stretched on for months, his bad days still far outnumbered the rare good ones, and he knew that he should be getting better by now. He should be accepting this reality and dealing with it. Trying to move on with his life. But he could never accept a world without Sherlock. At least not until he met Mary.

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**I've become sort of conflicted about what direction to go with in regards to Mary. Any suggestions? If so, please PM me! Hope you enjoyed and please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello everyone! Hope you enjoy the next update, and thanks a bunch for taking the time to read this! **

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It had been nearly a year and a half since Sherlock died, and John was pretty sure everyone was fed up with his mourning and depression. They had all moved on a long time ago, and they wanted him to be better. Honestly, he wanted to be better himself. He wanted to meet someone he could settle down with, he wanted to finally get a chance at having a real relationship, since Sherlock had always destroyed even the most remote chance. So when Lestrade asked him out to the pub, he wasn't surprised when he pushed him into one of booths and assured that the woman on her way was a perfect match for John.

Mary was honestly very nice. She was pretty, if a little plain, with light brown hair and large brown eyes. She was a primary school teacher, and taught Lestrade's daughter. She enjoyed books, tea, and taking long walks in the fall. Lestrade was right when he said she was John's perfect woman. But the best thing about her was that she managed to make John laugh and smile. She could get him to talk about Sherlock and all the good times they'd had together, he would tell her all sorts of stories about all the ridiculous things Sherlock had done. And when he had bad days, she understood, but pushed him to leave the house. More than anything, she helped him come to terms with his loss. By the time the second anniversary of Sherlock's death rolled around, he was a different man. A happier man. He had finally found his peace, and could move on and find a new life.

Mary moved into 221B, and they filled it with their own memories. There were still little signs of the flats previous occupant everywhere, from the books that still littered the shelf to the locked door at the end of the hallway, guarding the room of a dead man, but they didn't bother John anymore. And so, over year into their relationship and three years after death stole his best friend, John walked up the familiar wooden steps, carrying his and Mary's favorite Chinese take-away. While fishing in his pocket for the keys to the flat, his hand bumped against the blue velvet box that had taken up residence in his pocket for the past week, containing a beautiful (and expensive) engagement ring. He knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Mary, he just didn't know when he would ask. Before he managed to find his keys though, the door swung open.

John's face fell when he saw the look on Mary's face. She had gone very pale, and her eyes were wide with fear and surprise.

"Mary...what's the matter?"

"John, I, um, I don't know how to say this but there's, um, someone in the kitchen for you..."

Pushing past her gently while depositing the food in her waiting arms, he strode into the small kitchen, and nearly fainted from what he saw. Because there was Sherlock, sitting in his kitchen, head bent over a mug of hot tea clutched in his hands. This couldn't possibly be happening, he was dreaming, having another nightmare, anything. He'd seen Sherlock fall, seen the blood pool on the pavement. He'd gone to the funeral, he'd spent the past three years trying to accept it.

"Sherlock...," John barely whispered.

The man's head snapped up, and he stared at John, bewildered, for a moment before beginning to plead in a weak, breathless voice.

"Please John, please just let me explain. I know what I did was awful and I know it hurt you. I am so sorry. So sorry. I had to...didn't want to, really, I didn't. There were snipers, three of them, one for you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson each. They were going to shoot you if I didn't jump. I had to. I'm so so sorry...so sorry...", Sherlock practically sobbed out. He tried to get up from the chair, but clutched his side, eyes shut tight in pain, and gripped the table tightly to steady himself, turning his knuckles white.

John should be mad, really. He should be furious. He had spent so long mourning a man who was somehow miraculously not dead. But he couldn't be, not right now. He had never seen Sherlock so weak, so close to tears. He was in obvious pain, and looked unsteady on his feet. John had to do something, had to help him. He made his way quickly across the room and placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder, feeling his friend flinch away from his touch.

"John. Stop. I'm...fine," Sherlock managed to gasp out.

Shaking his head and gripping Sherlock's arm harder, he led Sherlock over to the couch, feeling him stumble slightly with each step.

"Mary, can you go get my med bag," he called over his shoulder, focus still on Sherlock.

After managing to help him sit down, John began working on getting Sherlock's shirt off, despite his friend's protest. After undoing the final button, he understood why. He was thin, very thin. His collarbone was dangerously prominent, and his ribcage threatening to burst from his chest, each rib easily visible against the thin, unnaturally pale skin. But worse were all the scars and half-healed bruises that marred what had once been clear skin. The smallest flickered across his skin like fire, providing a shiny, stark white background for larger pink ones, yet to fade to white. There were straight scars and jagged scars. Some were shallow, others formed ridges against his skin. He recognized marks from whips and a cluster of scars at Sherlock's shoulder that looked suspiciously like bullet holes. John felt his stomach twist violently, and looked up at his friend, whose head was hung down, face obscured by the too long hair. Eyes moving down his friend's body, John noticed a makeshift bandage, spotted with blood, running up Sherlock's side, from the top of his hip to the just below his ribcage. Just as he was about to remove the bandage, Mary walked in and set the bag on the floor next to John, stifling a gasp when she saw Sherlock.

"Could you get me some warm water?"

Mary nodded weakly, swallowing hard before tearing her eyes away. Letting out a shaky breath, John unwound the bandages carefully. His eyes flickered around the wound, seeing what was wrong almost immediately. Alright, could be worse. The wound itself wasn't very problematic, it was deep, but not too deep. Thankfully, Sherlock had had the foresight to stitch up the wound, if a bit haphazardly, seeing as a few stitches had popped. The skin around the wound was bright red and swollen. Definitely infected.

"Alright Sherlock. I'm going to have to take out the rest of these stitches and clean out the cut, then I'll get a hold of some antibiotics and we'll get this infection under control..."

He worked quickly and efficiently, trying not to hurt Sherlock too much, but he could still feel him suck in a breath when John touched the area around the cut. He kept glancing up at Sherlock, who hadn't spoken a word since his weak, hurried apology. His face remained in a tight grimace, eyes occasionally screwing tight at a sharp pain. Finally, after doing his best to clean and drain the wound, John wrapped fresh bandages around Sherlock's thin midsection, and eased him into a more comfortable position. He saw Sherlock's eyes flutter shut, and his breathing gradually slow to a peaceful, deep rhythm. John took Sherlock's limp hand in his own, turning it over, seeing all the scars that trailed across the bony fingers. He gently pushed the hair from his friend's face, fingers brushing the tips of the unnaturally sharp cheekbones. He let out a shaky breath, and really, really hoped this wasn't some sort of dream.

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**Grrr :(... stupid dialogue. I hate dialogue. Constructive criticism on it would certainly be nice, tell me if it sounds awkward!**

**Anyways, thanks for reading and please leave a review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**New update :) **

**Hope you all enjoy!**

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It could have been minutes later, it could have been hours later, but eventually, John felt Mary's hand curl around his shoulder. He looked over to see her lowering herself down to sit with him, glancing at Sherlock's unconscious form.

"Is he going to be okay?", she asked John, worry shining in her eyes. Even she could see how terrible Sherlock looked, how truly worn down he was. It surprised John how genuinely worried she seemed, she'd never even met him before.

"I think so. I'll need to get him some antibiotics in the morning, maybe have someone from the practice drop them off but after that...I'm not sure. I just...I don't know, I've never seen him so...", he trailed off, letting out a deep breath.

"Are _you_ okay John?"

John just nodded, mentally collecting himself. He wasn't ready to talk about how he felt right now. Mary took the message, giving him a quick kiss before heading off to bed. He nearly broke down when she left the room. Truth was, John wasn't okay, not by a long shot. He felt hot tears prickle at the back of his eye's, and awful emotions flood back to him. Elation. Sadness. Betrayal. Confusion. Anger, even. He'd spent so long mourning Sherlock, had come so close to death himself, and it was insane to think that Sherlock had been alive all that time. Probably barely, John reminded himself. He couldn't be angry at Sherlock, not now, not when he was like this. He couldn't imagine what Sherlock had gone through in the past three years, he'd seen the layers of scars and the terrifying thinness that make his stomach clench. It was horrible to think that, _maybe, _Sherlock had done this for him. It sure sounded that way, Sherlock had babbled something about snipers ready to kill him, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade before collapsing. He'd just imagined this moment so many times in his mind, he hoped that one day Sherlock would just turn up out of the blue and be back to his old self, that they would both continue with their life. They would be so happy. He had never imagined it like this though. Sherlock looked so broken, more damaged and beaten down that John had ever seen him. This wasn't going to be easy, he knew it. Getting Sherlock back to his old self would be hard, probably impossible, but John knew that he had to do his best to help him through this. On top of all the physical health issues, there would be PTSD, something John understood. Nightmares. Anxiety. Probably worse in combination with his already difficult personality. He squeezed Sherlock's hand a little tighter, just trying to make sure all of this was real, and eventually fell into a fretful sleep.

He woke up early the next morning slightly confused at why he was sleeping on the floor, backed up against the sofa. Suddenly remembering the events of the previous night, John whipped his head around, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw Sherlock still curled up on the couch, deep in sleep. Running his fingers through his hair, he checked his watch. A little before six. Mary should be down any minute for breakfast before going to work. A got up slowly, already aching from his awkward sleeping position, and made his way to the kitchen.

He heard Mary coming down the steps as he was pouring tea into her favorite travel mug, and turned around to see her tiptoeing into the kitchen, not wanting to disturb the sleeping man on their couch.

"You sure you'll be okay today?", she questioned, voice barely a whisper, while pulling him into a big hug.

"I'll be fine, really," he muttered.

"He perfectly welcome to stay here. You know that, right? I know how much he meant...means...to you, and I don't mind at all,"

"You don't know him yet, but thanks," John chuckled, smile forming on his lips.

Mary grabbed her breakfast and they shared a quick kiss before she rushed off to work, and John settled down in his favorite chair and waited patiently for Sherlock to wake up.

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Hours later, he was roused from his book by Sherlock's stirring, and quickly made his way to his friend's side. Kneeling down, he saw Sherlock's bleary eyes open.

"Good morning, erm, afternoon actually," John chuckled, "Here, I'll help you up..."

After finally, and rather painfully, getting Sherlock into a sitting position, John went to the kitchen for a glass of water and one of the antibiotics he'd had an intern drop off on their way home. He'd lied and said they were for Mary, who'd supposedly cut herself on one of the metal garbage bins outside, and that he didn't want to have to bother with the hospital. The intern had had no reason to think he was lying, so at least John was able to avoid that trouble. Sherlock took the pills without protest (thankfully) and drained the glass.

"Feeling any better", John questioned before sitting down next to Sherlock on the couch.

Sherlock only shrugged, drawing his knees up to his chest and hanging his head down.

Sighing, John placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's knee, "If you want to talk about...anything, you know I'll always be here for you, right?"

He lifted his head, still not making eye contact with John. "I suppose I owe you the truth..."

After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock finally began in a whisper, "It was all a part of Moriarty's plan, me ending up dead. But I was a few steps ahead, so I managed to work it all out. I knew going up to the roof what was going to happen, I'd planned the whole thing out. Molly helped a lot, and so did a few of my homeless network that I trust the most. They're the only ones that know I'm alive, not even Mycroft knows. So I planned the whole thing, and I was right about Moriarty's intentions. He had snipers ready to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and he would only call them off if I killed myself. He killed himself as well, so I had to jump to get rid of the snipers. I'm so so sorry you had to see that, and that I couldn't tell you it wasn't real, but it had to seem real to you. The snipers would have noticed if you'd acted wrong, and would have found out if I contacted you. And honestly...the jump wasn't foolproof, I could've died then, and there was no guarantee I'd make it back home anyways, so I probably wouldn't have told you. You had to be kept in the dark, and I'm really sorry. So after I jumped, I left England and haven't been back since. I've just be traveling since then...getting rid of Moriarty's network, one by one. Sometimes things...ended badly, and other times they went relatively well. Life was...difficult to say the least. When I made the last and final hit a few weeks ago, I came straight here. Nobody else know I'm alive yet...I felt like you should be the first to know. I'm so sorry for everything I put you through...I'm just so sorry, and if you going to start hating me now or yelling or something...please, please just get it over with," he finished, dropping his head to his knees and twining his bony fingers in his hair.

John sat there, totally dumbfounded. Sherlock had been willing to give his life for John. He'd endured horrible pain and suffering to keep John safe. He pulled the once great consulting detective into a hug, feeling the man's arms wrap around him tightly, and feeling him bury his face in John's shoulder. He ran his hand down the Sherlock's back, feeling his protruding shoulder blades and the startling knobs of his spine, in an attempt to comfort the close to hysterical man.

"I could never be mad, not after everything you did, everything you gave up, to keep us all safe," John whispered in the man's ear, pulling him into a tighter hug still.

* * *

**Hope all you readers enjoyed! Please review and feel free to make suggestions and give me any criticisms you can think of! **


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